


Mistaken Identity

by SlytherinPride2292



Series: Penguin Imagines / One Shots [3]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Barely Olga mention, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Kidnapping, Light and I can't emphasize the 'light' part: Bondage, Reader is smart though, but just in case
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-22
Updated: 2019-04-22
Packaged: 2020-01-23 18:01:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18554929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlytherinPride2292/pseuds/SlytherinPride2292
Summary: You were at the wrong place at the wrong time, and because of your ill-timing, you’ve been kidnapped by Oswald Cobblepot. Unfortunately, you’re not freed to leave. But Fate has a way of making things right.





	Mistaken Identity

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to my Tumblr mutual, kpopgirlbtssvt
> 
> There's smut but it has plot :)

 

 

**Chapter 1: Mistaken**

 

 _Breathe_ , you tell yourself. _Breathe…Stay calm._

This mantra you’ve been repeating in your head is one you’ve repeated many times in the past.

Granted, they were for situations that required a deep breath before you spoke to your boss about getting paid time-off, or even a raise that you and every co-worker associated knew was well-deserved.

It was the soft mantra said minutes before you went on a blind date, or you received one too many texts that read ‘hey, we need to talk’.

It was only ever reserved for those moments that seemed to be a little too pressing, and often times, the panic you felt was self-inflicted. Exacerbated by years of anxiety—most of it had gradually stacked as you lived as a Gothamite.

Gotham had a certain reputation, even as a city.

It was full of crime, corruption; it was full of scary people who would do scary things to others. Full of people who wanted to hurt and harm…Well, the city wasn’t _only_ filled with those irreputable thugs. What population was left that had not been tainted was the 10%, of which you solely belonged.

Innocent, modest, inwardly contained, you barely had a violent bone in your body; even the idea of hurting another person would send the worst, repulsive signal from your brain to your stomach; it left you queasy, barely functional.

So _why,_ you wondered helplessly, why were you snatched from the middle of Gotham’s busiest streets during one of the busiest days of the week (Ironically, a Wednesday, _who knew_ ); blindfolded and wrists and feet bound by what felt like rope, and thrown none too gently into the back of a vehicle? _Why_ was this happening?

What could you have done?

 _Breathe_ , you told yourself. _Breathe…_

The mantra used in small social situations was now used to delay what would best be described as a hurricane of overwhelming emotions to include fear, regret, a little irritation for all your efforts of staying _away_ from danger—but mostly fear.

“If you don’t stop moving,” said an annoyed thug. “We’ll be doing more to you than just looking at ya.”

You weren’t moving to begin with. They just wanted to scare you a little more.

Unfortunately, they were successful.

What fear you’d been managing to suppress ran down your spine, causing your entire body to shiver; your bodily reaction had nothing to do with the weather outside or the temperature within this engine-rattling vehicular prison…Those thugs around you seemed to gather that all too quickly.

“What should we do to her?” Another thug chuckled; his voice was grainier, huskier than the last.

“Well, that’s a matter of opinion.” The former spoke—you were blindfolded, but you could practically see his dirty smirk. “The boss said we just needed to snatch her—never said anything about…Well, _you_ know.”

“I think she can hear us,” said a third voice. This man, you assumed, was probably the more logical of the bunch. Calmer at least, less aroused. “And she’s smart enough to know what we’re talking about.”

“I figured we’d scare her less if we pretended she wasn’t smart.”

“Whatever.”

 _Breathe_ … _Breathe_ …In, out, in, out…That’s it…

“Pull over.”

“Why?” asked the calmer thug.

“Because it’s been a couple days.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“You’ve been looking at her too, you know. Don’t try to high-road me.”

“If you touch her, the boss is going to know.” The calm thug told the other two. “I doubt he’ll like that. We were told to kidnap, and—if needed—maim, but she’s been pretty calm for what it’s worth. So, if I were you, I wouldn’t touch her.”

“She’ll be a tasty little peach—I don’t like them fighting anyway…” The first thug that spoke seemingly made a gesture, one of which you could have assumed was nonverbal for fucking.

The calmer thug said pointedly, “If you do, she’ll only raise hell for us later.”

“Why do you say that?”

“The Boss says she’s got ‘friends in high places’. Higher, I imagine, since he’s going through all this trouble of getting her out of that office, into his. If she takes the Boss’s deal, and he lets her go, we’ve got a bit of a mess on our hands.”

“She’s not going to take his deal.”

“What makes you think she won’t?”

“She’s got every clown working for her, all this money at her fingertips, and Penguin thinks he’s going to make her back down?” laughed the first thug incredulously. “I doubt it. So, odds are, she’s gonna die anyway because Penguin isn’t taking ‘no’ for an answer. We might as well get our licks in—and you know, _other_ things.”

There weren’t any arguments that came later.

But apparently, the situation had been de-escalated by a simple firm look given to the two inappropriate wankers, casted by the eyes of the only thug who seemed aware of the future unfortunate consequences if they did what they were thinking of doing.

Of that, you were grateful.

If not more confused.

 _Penguin_. That was who had orchestrated your kidnapping. He was the reason you were in this situation. But the conversation had asked more questions than it had answered.

It was a case of mistaken identity, you realized. They, including their boss, thought you were this high roller woman, some big-time person who did what she wanted, when she wanted, and if the odds weren’t in her favor, she could change them so they fell in the palm of her hands.

They knew of her, clearly. They’d never met her; otherwise, why were you in this position in the first place—if that was the case?

“You’ve got the wrong person,” You whispered helplessly. _Damn, your nerves made you sound so weak._ “You…Please, you have the wrong person!”

“SHUT UP!”

A hard slap across your face silenced your other pleas.

You stayed quiet for the remainder of the trip.

**Chapter 2: Imprisoned**

 

Ten or twenty minutes passed and it wasn’t until the vehicle had come to a harsh and abrupt stop that a hand wrapped a vice-like grip around your bicep, propelling you forward so you stumbled out and off the high platform. Presumably, the calmer and more gentleman-like thug had been ready to catch you as you nearly fell into his arms with a disgruntled huff.

“Would you watch what the hell you’re doing!” He shouted.

“She can walk,” the other two grumbled among themselves.

You were escorted; one held your bicep; the other had a hard grip around your wrist, pulling you left and right until you presumably had stepped into whatever room it was that they’d been instructed to bring you inside.

“Untie her. Once you’ve done that, leave us.”

This voice was different. Calmer than the rigid suspects that had brought you here, and even more so: civilized, and gentle. Yet firm.

As they’d been ordered to do, the thugs (roughly) cut your bindings from your wrists, and the loose ropes that had made your walk stiffer and more of a task than it could have been. The blindfold still remained; you didn’t try taking it off.

A door closed.

“What do you want?” You asked quickly. “What did I do? What—”

“Shh.”

Penguin’s footsteps were easy to pinpoint. They were unique as everyone, including you, knew he walked with a limp. Allegedly, it had been given to him by one of his previous employers, one of many he’d betrayed. Whether it was well-deserved or otherwise, you hadn’t the privilege of knowing, or, for that matter, understanding.

You suddenly felt hands around your head, and you flinched at the contact. He didn’t seem to register your reaction as anything but startling, and as the blindfold was untied and removed from your person, you steadily blinked.

Your vision was blurry; your senses, off kilter. There was a certain relief that came from being able to see again, being able to take in your entire situation—but the dread followed the moment you saw Penguin.

For some reason, not seeing him but hearing his voice had been an ounce of relief more. It hadn’t made it real. But seeing _the_ Penguin, dressed in his reputable flamboyant suit, even carrying with him his cane with the iconic Penguin’s head atop its connected glossy extension made your situation—and your reality—that much more dire.

He looked at you, perplexed.

For his confusion, you took the opportunity.

“What do you want with me?” You asked fearfully; your hands shook, even as they sat in your lap.

The both of you sat in an office, it appeared. His office, presumably, within his own home. If not for your fear, you’d have actually felt welcomed here; the natural ambience of the homely appearance, despite the large capacity to fit at least fifty more individuals, and likely house at least ten people before reaching maximum occupancy.

“I haven’t done anything wrong,” You continued—although Penguin looked just as confused as you did. “I didn’t do anything _to you_ , I couldn’t—I _wouldn’t_.”

“Who are _you_?” Penguin asked, staring at you.

Well, that took you by surprise. Quietly, you said your name. It sounded strange on your tongue—saying it to someone you feared, and yet, knowing it might just clear your situation in a heartbeat.

“Are you related to Senator Briggs?” Penguin asked.

“No…”

“Do you know who she is?”

“She’s trying to run for Mayor.” You tell him.

“Is that all you know?”

Uncertainly, and almost embarrassingly, you admit, “I don’t know much about politics, Mr. Cobblepot.”

Penguin continued to stare at you.

“Unbelievable.” He muttered, rolling his eyes. He brought a hand to his nose, rubbing the bridge of it irritably.

“What? Did I say…or do something wrong?”

Penguin chuckled sarcastically, “No, but that’s actually the problem, isn’t it?”

You didn’t have an answer—what could you have said to that. But obviously, he wasn’t looking for an answer to it; in fact, he wanted an answer from someone else.

Standing to his feet, he poked the table, the area just in front of you and said firmly, “Do not move from this seat.”

You whispered, “…Okay…”

“You seem like a smart woman,” Penguin uttered pointedly. “I doubt I have to say more.”

You shook your head, hoping he needn’t threaten you if you easily complied. Surprised by your instant submission, almost taken aback by it, Penguin looked at you for a second longer before his attention was drawn to the door, through which the familiar three thugs suddenly ran and then came to an abrupt halt in front of him.

They stood in a pretty chorus line, befuddled.

“Yeah, Boss?” They all said in one way or another.

Penguin pointed to you indicatively and said irritably to his employees: “Who the hell is _she_?”

“Senator Briggs.”

“That isn’t her, _gentlemen_.”

You didn’t know Penguin very well, but you could tell that he wasn’t pleased. He was far from being happy, and irritation didn’t even begin to describe his current mood.

“She was in the same office as Senator Briggs—she was in _her_ office, Boss!” Thug One, the one that had been excessively inappropriate and insensitive, immediately came to his own defense. “She tried to fight us, just like you said she would!”

“Seriously? If any one of you walked into _my_ office without my previous knowledge of your actions, I wouldn’t go quietly either— _no one_ would.” Penguin stated harshly.

“So…So, that’s not her?”

“ _No, that is not **her**_!”

“So, you want us to kill her?” Thug One asked carelessly. He reached behind his back, pulled out a huge Glock, and nonchalantly pulled back the hammer, cocking and aiming it at you.

Penguin glanced over his shoulder, seeing you tense up. Angrily, he grabbed the gun from Thug One, and, with it already locked and loaded, aimed it at its owner and pulled the trigger. As you let out a squeak of fright, Thug One fell over; his two other associates glanced down at him apathetically before turning their undivided attention to their boss.

“I’m guessing that’s a ‘no’?” said the logical Thug—Thug Two.

“You are very perceptive,” Penguin muttered indignantly. He gestured ironically to the dead employee, adding, “Get him out of here.”

“You want us to talk to her?”

“ _No_. I will.”

You glanced down at the table as soon as the door closed; you heard Penguin approach. For a whole minute, you hoped he’d just leave the room, and you in your solace.

He said your last name; you barely registered his acknowledgement before lifting your teary eyes to meet his.

Unexpectedly, the anger he had shown to his employees had mostly gone with the exception of the residual irritation from the expired associate that left a trail of blood on the floor as his co-workers dragged him out of the room with an effort.

In fact, to your surprise, Penguin, the ruthless ruler of Gotham, seemed almost…What was the word?... ‘Remorseful’?

“What now?” You whispered, looking up at him. “I was right...I wasn’t the person you were looking for, I didn’t…I’ve never done _anything_ to _anyone_.”

“Is that true?”

You blinked. _Was that true??_

“It’s true.” You said, nodding. “I’ve never hurt anyone. I never killed anyone. I just…”

“Just ‘what’?”

“I keep my head down, and I walk away.”

Saying the truth hurt more than you expected. But it shouldn’t have come as a surprise. In fact, you did more than anything _not_ to be the hero. Despite your need to do the right thing, the easier and safest thing always took precedence.

“My men are morons.” Penguin uttered unhappily, sitting across from you at the table. “I gave them the simplest of instructions: Kidnap Senator Briggs. The flaw in that plan, of course, was that _I_ knew what Senator Briggs looked like; they only had a small and, I have to admit, inaccurate description of her appearance. Unfortunately, you just happened to be in the right office at the wrong time, and—I hope you don’t take offense to this—you look like her.”

You met his eyes again.

“So, I’m not the one you wanted.” You said quietly. “That means…I can leave, right?”

“You seem intelligent enough to know that what you want is not a likely option.”

The answer set a small trickle of emotion through your heart; first it started as a quake, then your face started heating up.  

“So, I’m a prisoner?” You questioned.

You didn’t expect this. Death, sure, but not imprisonment. Ironically enough, neither had Penguin as he looked you over, the expression of his remorse set more prominently in the expressive lines of his face.

“I am sorry.” Penguin offered his sentiment. It was sincere enough that you believed it.

“I guess I’ll be chained up in some dungeon.”

Your half-witted and half-serious response registered collectively in him. He smiled at your dark sense of humor, and he offered his hand. You looked at it uncertainly, but he insisted; you took it, and he gently lifted it and you followed him.

Where you were going, you weren’t sure.

Then you realized, you were going to the kitchen. It was here that he let go of your hand, realizing only later than he’d held it for so long in the first place. His reaction was one of embarrassment; the pink in his cheeks and the nervous smile he sent you almost made up for the kidnapping that had come only an hour earlier.

“A prisoner though you may be,” Penguin uttered almost half-jokingly, “but a degenerate, you are not. Your stay here is not of my intention nor yours…clearly”—(He raised his eyebrows and let out a cynical chuckle, marking the irony of the situation)—“but a direct result of my men’s idiocy. I take responsibility for that, seeing as they work for me. Your presence here will be kept under the secure scrutiny of my staff”—(Penguin indicated the maids and butlers and body guards that seemed to pepper around the mansion.)—“but you will be treated as my guest.”

You couldn’t say much to that. In fact, you were so startled by his gentleman-like introduction to the Rules of Engagement that it was hard to register the idea that you were still a prisoner. For someone as remarkably ruthless and homicidal as Penguin was made out to be in the papers and even among the people you worked alongside, he was a gentleman, held to the highest degree.

“You’re wondering where I’m going with this,” Penguin assumed, smiling at your stunned silence.

“Well…Yes.”

“Olga.” Penguin said the name; a plump but stocky maid wearing the classical maid’s attire appeared seemingly out of thin air. You hadn’t noticed her, at least. “She is my house maid, but a phenomenal cook; she’ll provide your meals while you are here.”

Olga smiled (if you called it that) and then left to do some house cleaning.

Penguin approached you, coming closer than what was needed. He stood an inch taller than you, yet you could feel the power radiating off him; the power he had over his minions, over a Senator (apparently), and the way he held himself to such a high standard said it all.

“Your stay here may be unwelcomed, but I hope it isn’t too uncomfortable.” Penguin assured.

For the first time since being kidnapped, you allowed yourself to smile. You couldn’t help it really; he was so sweet.

“What do you think?” He asked.

“What do I think?” You repeated uncertainly. “What _can_ I think?”

“I’m open to any ideas you may have.”

There. It happened again.  You couldn’t help another smile come to your face. Maybe it was the fact that Penguin, although having literally just killed someone in front of you, was truly sincere in his efforts to placate the repulsion that his men had incurred.

“What if I just want to go home?” You asked. “And I promised never to say anything to anyone about what happened.”

“The thing about that,” Penguin returned calmly. “They always make that promise, but seldom do they ever keep it.”

Well, there was no denying that. Were you _really_ going to keep that promise? You weren’t sure, but he had a point, though.

“And what makes you think that if you fall asleep that I won’t try to even the score?” You asked.

The unsteady wavering of your tone surprised the both of you. No, you hadn’t a single volatile bone in your body; even Penguin could have picked up on it. The ballsy comment though—where the heck had that come from?

“You could try to even the score,” Penguin offered cleverly, leaning forward. “I doubt you’d get far though.”

You leaned back, by instinct.

You smiled nervously, knowing he was right.

“For what it is worth,” Penguin uttered civilly. “In whatever way this inconvenient but otherwise unprecedented situation may end, you are probably one of the most interesting people I have ever met.”

He started walking away; you turned, watching him.

He gestured to the ceiling, saying, “Your room will be upstairs, the third room on the right as you walk down the corridor. If you want to exact your revenge, as misdirected as it really is, I sleep in the room across from you. I’m normally in bed by nine o’clock.”

Penguin left you in the kitchen, and he didn’t bother looking over his shoulder.

 

**Chapter 3: Bad Dreams**

 

Living under house arrest within Penguin’s mansion.

There have been horror movies made in far worse circumstances in far more dreadful locations.

Your routine for the next two months had taken an interesting turn…or rather _turns_ , as there had been more than one occasion that had made you wonder about your current predicament.

The first three nights were the hardest. You lied in your Queen-sized bed, wearing some extra silky pajamas that were a size too big for you (Penguin had instructed Olga to go to the malls and buy you the extra clothes you’d require for the unexpectedly long stay). You had to appreciate the extra effort by which he’d gone in order to make up for his minions’ idiotic error.

Still, you missed _your_ bed. You missed _your_ apartment, although, by now, your studio sized humble abode was already being rented out to the next available buyer who wouldn’t miss two monthly payments in a row.

And luckily, you hadn’t owned a pet so they wouldn’t starve or miss you anytime soon.

On that note, it was convenient, too, that no one in your family seemed to care that you were gone—and if they could’ve cared, they weren’t alive to tell you these days. A mother who disowned you because you refused to leave Gotham (it was your home). A father who had died a few years ago, and possibly, was the only person who cared about you and vice versa. A brother you never spoke to, based on political differences and opinions on _morality_. And a friend who you thought would’ve called the police, but to your knowledge, you hadn’t shown up on the police’s radar no more than the homeless veteran had.

 _Some people_ , you thought unhappily. _Some friends_.

And yet, despite missing your unappreciative friends and your depreciating apartment, you couldn’t help but be a little grateful towards Penguin. While he had to cope with the idea that you might very well end up slitting his throat in the middle of the night (as he might worry with most people he might have kidnapped in the past), there was a certain gentleman-like, roommate-ish vibe to him.

Every morning when you came to breakfast (if you did, that was), he greeted you with a ‘Good Morning’ and he always addressed you by ‘Miss’ followed by your last name. He wasn’t passive aggressive, neither was he overtly friendly.

Even then, you might’ve welcomed it.

The overtly friendly part, not the passive aggression.

Oswald Cobblepot was an attractive man. While he might be modest about his appearance, knowing he was partially attractive and perhaps staying on the more-than-just-modest side of the spectrum, _you_ knew he was handsome.

Blue eyes, or green, if the light hit them just right. Raven hair, which, these days, he kept out of his eyes and off his forehead, combed back and held up by what you assumed was an array of hair products, and still appearing soft to the touch.

Thin and trim, by the looks of how he carried himself. Even while he limped, his walk still had a bit of a saunter to it. Confidence spoke volumes; Oswald Cobblepot was no different.

A friendly gesture was welcoming you to his home. A more-than-friendly gesture was having his maids go to the store, buy you what might have been every single piece of clothing not stapled to a mannequin, and having it dropped off by your bedroom door every morning you woke up.

A friendly gesture was giving you free reign around the mansion, able to leave your room and not being solely sequestered to it like a cell. The more-than-friendly gesture that he decidedly used was even permitting you to _not only_ walk about the mansion but even extending an offer for you to have lunch with him at a _public_ restaurant, permitting, of course, that you made no move to alert the police of your awkward and otherwise complicated situation.

You seldom took his offer of going to the restaurant. Perhaps it was knowing yourself too well, knowing you’d try to escape and you simply did not want to exacerbate what was overall a pleasant situation into a worse off circumstance…But really, that was what you told yourself.

The truth was, of course, that you actually _wanted_ to have lunch with him. You _wanted_ to be with him, and what was more ironic and perhaps even more confusing, is that you would more than happily walk into his room at nine o’clock when he was just getting ready for bed but not for the murderous reasons he had put in your head.

Oswald Cobblepot was attractive. You knew that all too well.

And it was a thought that had started as an inkling, then became something more of a daydream.

 _Stockholm Syndrom_ e, you remembered. _Beauty and the Beast_.

If you were pretty, and _he_ was attractive, which of the two of you were the beast, you wondered amusedly.

The nights came all too quickly.

This night, in particular, made you more restless.

The day over all had been quiet, almost boring. Penguin had been gone for the better part of the day, leaving you to wander around the mansion; the maids and butlers kept a close eye on you, literally the entire time. Glancing around the corner; peering over their dusted equipment or their baking goods to make sure you weren’t trying to slip the wool over their eyes and escape.

Staring at the ceiling, you considered escaping. Ultimately, you knew the truth better than anyone else: You wanted to stay. And furthermore, you wanted _him_.

Restless nights, indeed. Thinking of Penguin: A powerful man who had the city at his fingertips, every helpless man and woman at his beck-and-call; every mayor who took the last mayor’s place would consistently fall and give submission and their own power over to the one man who had a hook in every dirty pool and every mob’s circle.

And yet, Penguin was still a man. A gentleman, a sensitive soul.

You weren’t sure _what_ possessed you to get out of bed and pull the silk red robe over the navy-blue pajamas, made of the same material. You weren’t sure what took control of your extremities, pulling you out of your room and, with a steady hand, turned the door knob to the bedroom across the way.

Whatever it was, the power was strong. Its force so compulsive, so _persuasive_ , you almost felt no fear what so ever. Amplified in your ears and standing within the ear-ringing silence of Penguin’s bedroom, you could hear his quiet, steady, slow breathing.

He was asleep.

As you approached his King-sized bed, there was a part of you, begging to leave, begging to flee. _What the hell are you thinking_! It’s screaming at you, hoping you’ll listen to reason and take flight.

But that part of you doesn’t reign anymore. Maybe it was Penguin’s influence, seeing him do what he wanted, when he wanted without asking anyone’s permission or hoping for a better outcome than that which he always pursued and—as always—faithfully received.

You wanted the same outcome.

So, you followed his example.

There was a flicker of mischief in your heart; it buttered your insides with glee and excitement, knowing that what you were doing was far from what you might have usually done in the past. And while the feeling you had was one of earnest and suspense, it slightly flickered into concern.

The moment you heard his whimpers.

And you realized…

Penguin…Oswald Cobblepot, a man, was having nightmares.

 _Bad dreams_. And from the sound of his helpless sounds… _Very bad dreams. The worst._

Your eyebrows furrowed in concern; the suspense and eagerness of doing something naughty now transformed into one of need to comfort and protect. He’d done his job in protecting you from his thugs—it now only seemed justified that you’d return the favor.

You lied next to him, hoping against hope that he’d not wake up and think you were trying to accomplish what he suspected might have been your intent this entire time.

Penguin looks like he’s trying to evade his nightmares, his body scrunched up in a fetus position. You lie next to him, and gently touch the shoulder opposite of you; with your other hand on his side, you lightly move him so he slowly sinks into you, huddled closer to the only other warm body.

He doesn’t resist. In fact, he seems desperate to escape the monsters that torment him at night; the ones that torture him in his waking hours are not nearly so cruel, you realize.

“Don’t…” He mumbles in his sleep.

“It’s okay, Oswald.” You whisper.

He’s facing your direction; you rub his back as you lie on your side.

What external opposition you may have against the monsters wrestling against his subconscious, it seems to do the job. He relaxes; the tension leaves his face, and his body. Apparently, it’s a positive enough result that it pulls him out of his nightmare, enough that he opens his eyes and sees you in his bed.

“What…” Penguin says, slowly beginning to sit up.

“Wait, wait, wait!” You say quickly—you know what he’s about to reach for, and you’re hoping you can calm him down a second time, although you wonder if such a thing has ever happened in _his_ lifetime.

“Why are you here!” Penguin demands. Sudden anger.

“I’m not here to kill you,” You tell him; you do your best not to stammer, lest you be perceived as a liar. “I heard you…Having bad dreams, so I thought—”

Penguin stares at you.

He’s trying to understand what just happened during his resting hours, and he glances at the door, realizing it’s fully open. It was never shut…You left every trace of a footstep possible to make your presence known, to him as well as to any guard that might show up.

In his hand, he’s holding a switchblade. He held it up at first, as a deterrent. Now, he lowers it, looking at you with a different type of emotion. One that you were familiar with, seeing as it would flicker across his expressive face for only a few seconds before he masked it with a civil, aloof reaction, instead.

“I promise,” You say quietly. “I wasn’t trying to kill you. I came into your room, and I heard you—”

“Wait.”

You stop talking, hearing his soft command.

He puts the knife on the end table, and he moves closer.

“If you weren’t trying to kill me, why did you come into my room?” Penguin asks curiously.

You smile nervously. Oh, the things you want to tell him.

“Well…”  You began.

 _Damn_! It was easier thinking it than saying it aloud. That feisty, mischievous spunk that had been in your system was suddenly no where to be found. _Damn it!_

“I…” You began, searching for the words. “I was just…um…thinking about how nice you’ve been and how you were sweet and caring and-and thoughtful and we’ve practically been together for about two months now, s-seeing each other every day, and there’s a couple of times where I thought you might…I don’t know…like me more than what—than what you might have led me to believe…”

The words came out like vomit, although, thank goodness, there was no _real_ actual vomit. The stammering that inevitably found its way to your unsteady tone, the small gestures of desperate attempts to convey your thoughts with your gesticulating, however, trembling hands.

You took in a long, deep breath, realizing it had been a few minutes since you had taken one and you looked at Penguin, now, with a hopeful smile. He stared at you still…Not so much as ‘perplexed’ or even ‘repulsed’ by it, but more or less subdued by your astounding ramble.

Basically, you said you liked him. More than just a friend, even so, at all, considering you were his prisoner.

“You weren’t trying to kill me, then?” Penguin asked carefully.

“No…Why would I?”

“Why _would_ you?”

“Well, aside from the obvious circumstance. But I couldn’t kill you. You’ve treated me so well, a lot better than my past boyfriends or girlfriends have ever treated me.” You tell him, unable to ignore the warmth in your face as you knowingly blush. “And…you were having bad dreams, so I thought I could try to—I don’t know—make it easier for you?”

“And that objective required you to be in my bed?” Penguin asked with a small sly smile.

“Well, _no_ , it didn’t _require_ me to be in it, but I figured…Why not?”

You think he’s going to make some satirical remark, but it’s the opposite. At first, he’s taken aback by your response and then he smiles at you. Not just sincerity as he normally passes off to you, but there’s more to it.

“So…” Penguin says uncertainly. “Now what?”

“Well, it’s boring in my room. So can I sleep here?” You asked politely.

He paused. Then says, “Sure…”

He lies down, uncomfortably at first as you do the same. You snuggle closer to him, smiling when he tenses up at first and when you’ve stopped moving around, he relaxes and puts his arm around you.

He wishes you goodnight, saying your name softly as though his voice alone could caress it in its own soft syllables.

“Good night, Oswald.” You whisper, smiling.

Before you can drift off to sleep, he kisses your forehead. You lift your head so his lips end up kissing yours, completely by ‘accident’. You don’t acknowledge the incidental slip as it was by your own device and you quickly return the kiss without so much as a hesitation. You can feel it in the kiss as he eagerly responds, having longed for that feeling of intimacy and human contact that you just as wantonly crave and return as well.

An unprecedented event in a ruthless town and you found what you needed most in a man that needed the same.

 

**Chapter Four: The Confession**

Your bedroom became storage after a time. Without a body to warm the mattress or a soul to graze its presence, the room just became yet another space for Olga to gussy up, to dust, to vacuum. After she finished, the door was closed; not a single person in Oswald’s employ would have been able to tell that at some point or another, it might’ve been a place for you to sleep. At the same time, every staff member could attest to that.

While your bedroom became ‘just another room’, Oswald’s became a home for two.

Every night, in fact.

Since the day you’d crawled into his bed to calm his ever-so-torturous resting demons, his sleep had become more than restful; naturally, he wanted it to continue. Three weeks later, when the day was over and yet another day was happily spent in his abode, you eagerly locked the front door then retired to bed.

As you lied there, you slowly fell asleep. After a time, you felt the bed shift with the weight of a second human as Oswald dressed down to pajamas. A pang of pity stung your heart; he _always_ came to bed seemingly exhausted; a soft sigh left his lips just as he lied on his back, directly beside you. Very little space ever remained between your bodies, especially when he made himself comfortable.

The first couple of nights he spent sleeping beside you—you’d seen him at his most vulnerable, and some of the most adorable interactions you’d ever witnessed. For someone like Penguin who was so self-assured more than 99% of the time, always affluent in all things political, business, or any subject matter regarding manipulation and the other, Oswald was out of his depth when it came to any type of physical interaction—especially when it concerned yourself.

He’d made progress though over the past few weeks. Substantial progress. There’d been a time where he wouldn’t have trusted you near his head; yet, now, you felt his arm wrap itself around your waist, tightening, and pulling you back; you felt his body warm up against your back, and the smile that was inevitable every night reached your lips.

You heard him talking. Quietly.

To himself?

Or to you? You were never sure. He did this occasionally. Of this, you were aware.

He’d spend the next ten or twenty minutes telling you about his frustrations, whether or not you were asleep. It was an outlet for him—a way to expel the aggravation of having to deal with the irreputable all day, having the relief of coming home and not having to worry about having a gun put to his head.

Normally, he’d fall asleep after ten or twenty minutes after lying down. This time…

This time was different. Something else was stirring in this man’s mind.

How did you know this? Well, the evidence was piling.

One of his hands slowly moved between the locks of your hair; his fingers entangled in them. The other rested on your stomach; the thin material of your nightie didn’t disguise the gentle strokes which were administered to your skin in soft, concentric circles.

Soft, but calculating.

Testing a boundary. _Your_ boundaries.

His circular feather-like touches started on your stomach, then slowly moved to your hip. The hem of your nightie just as delicately was pulled up, so you felt the same amount of contact on your bare skin.

You involuntarily shuddered. Not with disgust, but with anticipation.

“Oh, so you _are_ awake.”

You grin mischievously when you hear his voice, although naturally light, utter lowly in your ear. His lips touched the shell of it, and he purposefully exhaled a quiet sigh of raw contentment. This sound alone tactically drew not only another pleasant shiver, but an involuntary hitched moan.

Caught red-handed.

You began to turn on your back to admit your fealty; however, the hand on your hip squeezed as he commanded quietly, “Don’t move. Stay where you are.”

So, you obey. Almost too readily—you feel Oswald’s smile crease his lips along the side of your neck.

“What now?” You manage to whisper; the shakiness to your voice betrays your eagerness.

“That really depends.”

“On what?”

“Your answer.”

You’re not sure what he means. But his meaning becomes known when he lowers his hand from your hip; when it rests on the outside of the thigh closest to him…The rest of his fingers are still, except for his thumb which caresses your skin in small movements, the tip of it grazing the outer elastic band of your panties.

“What’s the question, then?” You ask.

Oswald lets out a quiet laugh; it sounds so genuinely amused. _He_ is genuinely entertained by your sudden phase of modesty. Wasn’t it only a couple weeks ago that it had been _your_ idea to share his bed? And here you were…Asking for the question when you already knew the answer to it.

But even as your body craves him to dominate you in the same way he uses his power to solidify any quarrels with the mob or the GCPD, there’s still a part of you that longs to know the answer to a question that has been burning inside of you for a such a short time…but only if one accounted for that time in human hours.

While he may lack the social perception for physical interaction, Oswald can read people. And it becomes known that you are not an exception. As you hesitate to answer him directly or even nonverbally, Oswald’s face betrays him. You see his confusion almost immediately.

“Are you having second thoughts?” He asks.

You’re quick to assure him. No, you’re not having second thoughts. No doubts of any kind.

“Then what is it?”

The hand in your hair releases it and instead caresses your face within the palm of his hand. Unlike your own, his hands are warm. Almost hot, but so comforting. You’d become lost in his touch if it was humanly possible…And you’d be so happy to never be found again.

“Do you love me?”

The question leaves your lips before you could allow your brain to contemplate the absurdity of it all. What kind of a question is that, after all? This person lying beside you had imprisoned you in his own home, arguably he was your warden, your captor…and while all of that was inherently correct, accurate to a ‘T’, there was still a part of you that recognized Oswald for what he always wanted people to perceive him as being.

He was still a man. A man with a soul, with a heart. A powerful man, but a man none the less. And you…a person who had never been treated as beautifully and with such gentleness in your entire life.

And while your lust could devour your soul for all that it was worth in both value and trade, your heart could not be deceived. As much as it loved him, you needed to know if his reciprocated the same.

Oswald looks at you, startled. It is not often that he’s asked this question; in fact, it’s not often that he’s had as much interaction with another human without having a knife being shoved to his throat than he’s had with you—a kind gentle soul who had never done a single thing to anyone or anything, for that matter.

Did he love you?

The time he didn’t spend at the meetings for his casino or with the volatile variables of his occupation, he spent it with you. What energy he had left when he was finished with Gotham’s ill-repute, he used to lavish you with gifts and sincerity.

“Of course, I do.” Oswald returned.

The answer isn’t what you expected, but it is one that you are more than happy to hear. With your confession in the air and his reciprocation having been tossed in the same, you smile at him.

And this time when he kisses you, you feel more than just lust. Love radiates between you both. You can feel it in your heart, and he, in his.

 

**Chapter Five: The First Time Together**

 

His admission of love is almost a declaration so strong that it could have knocked the breath out of your windpipe. Breathless as you were, there wasn’t a single thing you could say that could express the dire longing that had become fulfilled by his words.

Then again, why were words necessary?

The thought occurred to you, and instead of trying to express your gratitude vocally, you did so with another kiss. This exchange is not so tender; your intentions are made clear when your lips crash against his, pressing against them so hard and so quickly that your teeth clicked.

Oswald isn’t naïve. Something more than just your hard, deep kisses has made it known to him how badly you need to consummate your wanton desires. Your nightie is not thick enough to disguise your radiating heat from between your legs. While you’re enjoying the make-out taking place between you two, this is the place where you need him most.

Steadily during the fierce progression of those kisses, you’re gradually lowered on your back; staring up at him from the bed while he lies on his side, looking down at you. Where the bright irises of ever-changing hues of blue would normally reside, in their place is something darker…something you’ve been longing to see but have been fearful for which to ask.

Any other man might act upon his own desires, like a barbarian having been masked with a human’s face and skin, but no such man is he. Oswald Cobblepot, you realize, is something far more dangerous than any other man. He’s not a beast, a Neanderthal, whimsically groping and fondling away like a mad schoolboy undergoing a hormonal fiasco.

Oswald isn’t anything like that.

He’s patient. He’s cool, calm, and collected.

Like a lion.

Waiting.

So very patiently, too, he allows your desire to climb.

His hand, which has caressed your face to observe your repressive frenzy, now lowers to your neck. The inside of his thumb just barely grazes the lining of your throat; the other digits form a ‘C’ around the side of your neck, with a soft but firm hold.

He hasn’t spoken much except to exhale a quiet sigh of contentment when your hands leave your side to hold onto him—any part of him. His arms, his shoulders, his hair. Seeing your submission eek out of what he’d quickly discovered was a calm but quaking, strong soul…it’s a power you hadn’t known until you felt what affect it had on him.

In your squeamishness, your legs have moved; fidgeting, your thighs move and you feel an extension of him nudge against the right one.

 _Oh,_ you think with subtle surprise and flattery.

You realize what your actions and moans have been doing to him.

And something else has probed your mind. It’s a thought that registered from time to time…

 _How big is he_?

The thought alone, even now, heats your face and you see a ghost of a smirk tug on Oswald’s lips.

As though he read your mind.

Steadily, his hand on your neck moves down, grazing his fingertips along the V-neck of your nightie. His eyes flicker down to the straps on your shoulders and without saying much, he looks into your eyes one more time---when you don’t object, the straps are pulled down with a gentleness that feels almost out of place but only because you’re wanting something more.

You open your mouth to implore him to get on with it—patience is a virtue but it’s something you certainly don’t have. At least, not as much patience as the man who has made you come undone and your clothes haven’t even come off yet!

In spite of your silent protest, you are silenced.

More kisses. Soft again. Tender. Pecks turn into open-mouthed invitations, and you can feel his tongue sliding against yours. It distracts you from the fact that your night slip is completely down to your stomach: straps and all, a puddle around your mid-section.

His hand that had been languidly undressing you now rests in the valley of your breasts. He makes not a verbal comment, but you can hear him try to stifle what you can only assume is an anticipated moan.

He doesn’t move to either breast. His hand on your valley just holds you in place for what is about to happen.

His leg separates yours, wrapping itself around the one closest to him. Like an anchor.

Last chance, he seems to say. Last chance to stop this before he finally loses his composure. Last chance before he finally gives into his baser instincts, the type of instincts that with control and discipline have set humans apart from the animals who walk on all fours or slither through the dirt of the underground.

As an answer, your hand that has been interlaced through his hair drops to the bulge pressed against your thigh through his pajama bottoms. He’s substantially hard, thick in girth, and the size of him, you can’t fathom to imagine…although you could certainly try as you massage your palm over his cock. He sharply exhales, as though he’d been holding in a breath but now you stole it from him in that simple gesture.

“You’re not so timid anymore, _are_ you.” Oswald whispers.

Your voice accompanies your smirk: “I never _was_.”

The answer you provide darkens his eyes to nothing as they become dilated completely. There was a darkness to you all along, hidden from society, hidden from the villains of Gotham…waiting to appear when the big bad of them all realized you’d been playing _everyone_ for a fool. The greatest form of manipulation was an apparent subservience, one of which you felt Oswald could completely understand.

Underestimation was a cruel but successful tactic.

Oswald’s hand on your valley moves down, his fingertips grazing over the nightie that is pooled at your waist, and then slides underneath it. You feel it before you see it. His hand on your underwear, not just on the waistline anymore. His palm presses against them, the heat from your pussy so hot and wet, he can feel it through the material.

A small squeak escapes your lips as he rolls the pad of his thumb over your swollen clit. The material of your underwear generates a certain amount of friction that you alone couldn’t have, and the shock of contact sends jittery, but overwhelming waves of pleasure through every extremity. Another whimper is pulled out of you when you feel him fingering you through your underwear—just enough to tease, not enough to fully please.

His lips press against your ear, then below it. Your skin is sensitive; you can feel every peck of his lips, and his tongue along the shell of your ear as he moans contentedly while you quietly suffer.

“Don’t give me that whine,” Oswald utters softly as you let out a helpless moan.

Just as he expected, you’re trying to move your legs, trying to push them together so you could assuage the growing sensation in the pit of your belly. A throbbing that is so pleasantly uncomfortable.

But he’s stronger than he looks.

He’s able to hold you down; the other hand that hasn’t been occupied with your body has found its way behind your head, coiled in your hair which he’s wrapped around his fist. He pulls and your head cranes back, looking up at him whereas your eyes had been drawn below.

“You are wriggling an awful lot,” Oswald cared to observe aloud with a sly smile. “Perhaps you’d prefer manual restraints?”

Your eyes grow big as saucer plates.

 _Bondage_?

You’ve never experienced such a thing, but there’s a darker part of you aching to give it a try, especially if it’s Oswald doing the tying. However, it’s too soon, and the reality of such a suggestion causes your legs to forcefully lie still.

Oswald scolds with a smile: “That’s what I thought.”

The hand between your legs, though… _God_ , he’s driving you insane. Your underwear is completely soaked by the time he takes pity on you. Just as he’s done through every step of the way, he slowly draws your underwear down your legs, to your knees, and stops. He takes into account that while you’re basically fully undressed, for save the night slip resting aimlessly around your waist that he’s still fully clothed in his pajamas.

He pointedly says, “Don’t move.”

You nod.

You’ve done everything he’s ever asked—why would this be any different?

He removes himself from you only to pull his shirt over his head (a sight that you hadn’t realized you wanted to see until now) and then unintentionally humorously wiggles out of his bottoms. You hide your amused smile.

For such a dangerous man that he’s perceived to be (and you are aware that he really is), there’s a sense of humor about him that you deem is quirky and playful. It’s not the first time you’ve seen it, but it’s a funny thing when you do.

He joins you swiftly, taking this measure to command that you lie down on your back; you do as you’ve been told whereupon he takes both your night slip and underwear and slips them off your ankles in a few tugs.

Where they fall, you don’t care in the slightest.

Eagerly, he returns and he’s settled between your legs. Already, you feel his cock against your swollen pink petals…he’s girthy, alright. Big, too.

 _‘I’ll make it fit’_ , your thought processes are so determined.

“Last chance,” Oswald warns.

You sit up with him between your knees and kiss him. _Hard_.

“Enough with the warnings—just _fuck_ me already, **please**.”

Oswald cracks a grin—mischievous, and yet, pleasantly impressed by your command. He returns your kiss, and you’re lying on your back again as he braces himself on top of you, most of his weight supported by his elbows. Once he’s inside of you, however, that type of commanding support is lost but you welcome his weight—it’s a safe feeling you’ve craved. Now that you have it, you doubt you’ll ever be able to let it go.

His thrusts start out slow, giving you time to adjust. It doesn’t take long; in a matter of a few, you’re already pleading for a harder, rougher pace. And he’s all too inclined to indulge.

The force that compels him to give you what you want is what really puts you over the top. The fire in your belly churns into an unstable flame and as it grows, so does the volume of your moans. As the exalting tidal wave of an intense release crashes over you, you know Oswald isn’t too far behind.

His thrusts are getting sloppy; his otherwise quiet moans have become an unyielding series of grunts and panting. When your climax reaches its peak, the sex becomes rougher, almost animalistic.

Your hands reach out to him, but he pins your wrists against on either side of your head. The control he has over you, the same power he has over Gotham…it shows, oh it definitely does, and you feel almost entitled to see it and what follows is his sudden submission as his own orgasm peaks.

He pulls out of you, almost immediately; when he does, you take the opportunity as you’ve been freed from your restraints to sit up and push him on his back. He’s disarmed by the sudden response but his moan of gratitude comes out when you wrap your mouth around his cock as you stroke him with your hand, bringing him to his full orgasm.

You feel him come inside your mouth, and you take every ounce that you can until he’s completely depleted.

You smile when you watch him lie on his back, spent. He glances at you, smiling back. At first there are no words to describe what has happened between the two of you—no words exist _to_ describe such a beautiful thing.

He looks you up and down and he asks softly, “No second thoughts?”

You say happily with the blush on your cheeks: “None what so ever.”

 

**Chapter Six: Epilogue**

Ten years.

Seems like a such a kick in the fucking face if you thought about it. And hell, how could you _not_ think about it. The sentence was uncalled for, especially since you, Oswald, and Ed Nygma had taken back Gotham alongside Jim Gordon and the rest of the GCPD.

 _Hell_ , even **Barbara fucking Kean** didn’t even go to prison. And yet…

Here you all were.

Well, you and Oswald.

Poor Ed…He ended up going to Arkham.

Still, there was a sense of entitlement you felt was owed. How did Jim Gordon…Why did he…Who did he think he was—none of that mattered. The judge threw down the gavel, sentencing you to five years; Oswald, ten.

The five-year span was easy compared to the other treacherous tasks that you had to go through back in the day. Still…

You sit in this small confinement of a room. Supposedly, it’s for the prisoners to visit their families but for such a tight confinement, you doubt that any prisoner with a family would bear to have their family come here.

Children…Mothers…. Fathers…maybe even pets.

Come _here_? One could hope not.

For years, it was you in the prisoner’s spot while you watched some rehabilitated friends visit, ones who hadn’t come looking for you when you were first imprisoned by what was ironically the person who knew you best. The friends didn’t stay long, only talking about how great life was outside of Gotham… _Typical dirtbags,_ you’d think. But hey, they gave you money for cigarettes and it was the cliché of trading cigarettes for letter writing materials, of which you could exchange with other prisoners in other cellblocks.

Now…

Here you were. Five years had passed, not much had changed, except for the fact that _you_ were the visitor, here to see someone close to you.

As expected, you were ten minutes early. Not much looked different about you: new hair, new makeup, new clothes, but the rest of you was the same. As the officer escorted the object of your affection out to the room, you gave that particular one a cold glare; he recognized you from the day and quickly left to continue his shift.

Oswald Cobblepot took a seat in the metal chair; his hands, by your request, had been unrestrained. Not that he needed _you_ to protect or provide for him in this prison. He’d had influence from the outside for so long that his reputation followed him even to Black Gate, where the other prisoners revered, respected, or feared him enough to stay out of his way and not mess with the provincial life he’d set up for himself.

As a result, his clothes, an edition of prisoner attire, were more steam pressed with crisp sleeves and suit-like creases in the pant legs. His hair was in that familiar style, pulled out of his face and stacked atop of his head; he wore makeup from time to time, a subtle look if the day accounted for it at all.

And here he was, handsome as ever.

You smile when he greets you in such a way that isn’t representative of prison life. He simply leans over the table, kisses your cheek, and says, “How was your day, Dear?”

His greeting alone makes you want to cry, but for his benefit, you say softly, “Uneventful. Until now.”

“Really? ‘Uneventful’? I have a hard time believing that. What did you do today?”

“Nothing much.”

“Did you rob anything?”

“No.”

“Mug anyone?”

“No.”

“Ah…Perhaps you pickpocketed a sad civilian?”

“Of course not!” You exclaim, smiling. “Like I said when we first met. I never did anything to anybody.”

“Let me guess, then,” Oswald sighs. “You did all three.”

You try to play the fundamentally innocent act, but Oswald knows you too well. So, you throw your hands up in the air in surrender.

“When is your parole board?” Oswald asks seriously.

“A week from now.”

“Do you have a place to stay?”

“Not necessarily.”

“You have the manor.” Oswald offered.

“That’s _your_ place.”

“And your point is?”

Oswald’s response disarms you. It was one thing when you shared his abode as you and him were living together at one point, but you never once considered it as your own personal stock. After a moment, Oswald sees your hesitation. But he insists.

“Fine.” You return humbly. “If that would make you happy.”

“It would.”

“Then I will.”

Oswald is onto other business: “Did they already give you a job?”

“Yeah.” You respond dutifully. “Some job as a grocer.”

Oswald rolls his eyes. His opinion about the nine-to-five, five days a week job is as low as they come but you’re just grateful to have some income heading your way. The hesitation on your face to express your uncertainty at this stage in your life is one that Oswald notices immediately. He bites the inside of his cheek thoughtfully, and, almost suddenly, takes your hand in his.

You look at him curiously.

“What?”

“I will ask you a question. I’d like you to answer me honestly.” Oswald says cryptically.

“Oh…Um…Okay…”

“Do you love me?”

“Of course, I do. I love you very much. Was that the question?”

“No. It was something of a preamble to it, though.” Oswald admits with a playful smile.

You’ve missed his sense of humor.

“What’s your question?”

“Will you marry me?”

Now _that_ was a question! You grin widely and try to restrain the excitement and happiness daring to flee out of your body in such a way that might alert the authorities as you respond emphatically, “ _Yes_ , I will!”

Oswald isn’t surprised by your response, but he’s definitely impressed by your lack of hesitation. You kiss him; he returns it. Sure, enough as soon as he’d come to talk, it’s time for him to leave as an officer _dings_ through the door with a badge and starts to gesture for the meeting to wrap up. You stand; Oswald does too.

You hold his hand.

The officer begins to object to that human contact, but Oswald glares at him. The officer shuts up immediately, looking anywhere but at him.

You grin widely. The people really do fear him but all you can do is love him for who and what he is.

“Five years from now.” Oswald utters, thinking of the distance and the many fifteen-minute phone calls, and visits through bars that will follow. He asks quietly, “Are you certain of this?”

“I’ve never been more certain.”

He kisses you. Soft…tender…then it becomes almost urgent. Like it’s the last time he’ll ever feel you in his arms again. You feel it too.

He whispers: “I love you so much.”

“I love you too…”

“Any second thoughts?”

You kiss him again and utter softly…

“None what so ever.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
